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gently caress it, put me in with a flash
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Jan 23, 2024 19:38
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| # ¿ May 15, 2024 00:11 |
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the hole 1450w (did not use flash) The hole, dark now in the evening, as it tends to be, is its usual three quarters of an inch in diameter, having not grown or shrunk by the sixteenth or thirtysecond of an inch as it often does (though to be one hundred percent fair and honest I must say I have no way of verifying whether it is indeed the hole and not the various measuring tapes I have used which varies in size) and it has come suddenly and finally to my attention that tomorrow will be the day, tomorrow the twenty-ninth of January twenty-twenty-four, tomorrow, Monday, possibly even exactly as the clock strikes midnight, that is, in only several hours from now, the answer will emerge. Facts about the hole: 1) Time: The hole appeared suddenly on a January evening last year. 2) Place: The hole is in a wall in my home office between two bookshelves and above an end table and would be at about waist height were I to stand next to it, which I would not. 3) Ecology: The immediate exterior is dusted with a black powdery substance (perhaps droppings), and inside glistens with a wetness that I have yet not touched with the skin, and the interior edge is laced with a fine webbing which is nearly invisible to the unaided eye. 4) Psychology: The hole, or whatever resides within, affects the dreams and to a lesser degree waking thoughts of those who spend more than sixty to ninety seconds within the range of a ten to twelve foot long and wide cone pointing outward from the hole. This has been demonstrated multiple times (on myself.) Whether to remove or ‘fix’ the hole: I have for some time been, as one might guess, restricted from my own office due to the effects of the hole, and although I have relocated my workstation I have not and will not remove the bookshelves and books because the shelves are affixed to the walls, and therefor the office remains an unusable library, though of course individual books can still be taken elsewhere with safety and ease. Whether to attempt to remove or to ‘plug up’ the hole in order to regain access to my office is the question at hand. I have tended toward: no. Why the answer to the question of whether to remove the hole is ‘no’: While my life has moved forward over the year since the hole appeared, there has been a growing sense of ‘other’ in the office and indeed in the house, an unavoidable sense of ‘having company’ as one might say, and as one who has lived alone for the better part of twenty years (with the brief exception of a misguided ‘roommate situation’ last winter which did not work out and ended terribly and permanently) I am highly sensitive to the presence of others in my home, one might even say that I can detect the aura of other minds, and I do sense such an aura in my office emanating from the so-called hole. Whether to cut away the area around the hole so as to see what lies behind the wall is out of the question, because what then might spill forth? On the other hand, the idea of plugging the hole with a paste and painting over it is equally impossible, because what might then be angered at this imprisonment? No, indeed, the traces of microscopic trails that glisten perhaps like that of a slug or snail (I have spent long afternoons peering through binocular lenses at the paint around the edges of the hole to detect these shimmering trails) leads me to the unavoidable fact that a being exerts its presence from within the hole, and spreads its feelers or limbs about whenever I am out of the room. To disturb it would be unwise. In fact I have taken to leaving my pistol (which I have certainly never yet had occasion to use) out of its safe, in plain sight, resting on my nightstand where I might reach it at a moments notice. Why now, tonight? The twenty-ninth? Why: Why, you ask, now, after one year why now, why do I expect now that the answer will emerge now? I have proof that it will be exactly the twenty-ninth, exactly, possibly at midnight, even probably at midnight tonight, that is to say: in a mere two hours and some minutes the answer will emerge. You see, this is all due to simple math, and simple, straightforward logic, and also of course due to some clues which needed interpretation, but which are in fact unassailable and true evidence when presented in the order which I shall now present them: THE EVIDENCE: For some months I have been placing various books and other ‘offerings’ as one might call them on the end table beneath the hole each evening and then upon the morning finding whether the hole (or that is to say the being within) was pleased. How, you might ask, could I detect this pleasure or displeasure? As I have already mentioned above, I can detect the mental aura, or, in simple language: ‘I can feel the pleasure or displeasure which emanates from the hole.’ On the very first morning of the hole almost one year ago I sensed that the pile of books on the end table was displeasing to someone or something and so I removed the books from the area. However, I then sensed that the absence of books was displeasing so I began to add back books and remove books only leaving those which caused pleasure. At a point it became clear that any other books added caused displeasure, and so the final pile of books, which has remained for many months, is as follows: The book pile: Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky The Haunting of Hill House, Jackson The Stranger, Camus Inferno, Dante Inferno, Dante (a separate edition with a different translator) Inferno, Dante (yet another edition with yet another translator, and further historical notes) The interpretation of the book pile evidence: It was, of course, not easy to determine at first glance the meaning of the books, however, as many hours and many days worth of thoughts combined and swirled in my mind over many weeks and months, the answer emerged. First, as anyone knows, Crime and Punishment was originally published as a serial released monthly over the course of twelve months or, in layman's terms: one year. As for Jackson’s novel, everyone knows the story features four characters, four also being the number of seasons in a year. The Stranger, of course, was written by Albert Camus who died in January. Inferno was the final key and also the most difficult to decipher, but the presence of three versions of the same book was in the end what provided the answer. It was, as I said, simple math, for Inferno contains thirty-four cantos in which are described the nine circles of hell. Thirty-four plus nine is forty-three, which tells us nothing until we remember to multiply that by three (the number of Infernos in the pile) and forty-three times three is one hundred and twenty-nine or, 129, or 1/29, that is, January twenty-ninth, which is (or must be) the date the hole first appeared last year. And so, tonight at midnight will mark one year of the hole. And that must mean something. It must represent something momentous. Something which must be going to happen. An end, oh yes, an end is in sight. My preparations: In order to prepare for the unknown upcoming event I have left a note on my dining table which explains things in case this unknown event might somehow cause my passing. The note is as follows: Everyone, I do not know what has happened to me. All I can say is, if you are reading this, I am sorry it turned out this way. The hole cannot be filled, and cannot be ignored. I’m so sorry. Inferno, Inferno, Inferno. This is certainly clear enough to explain the situation should anyone require an explanation in the small chance that whatever happens renders me incapacitated or dead. To this same end I have also placed my pistol at the ready on the end table beneath the hole, where I may grab it at a moments notice, should the need arise. I have loaded it with only one bullet, for safety’s sake. And now I go, to sit before the hole, and await what will or will not come.
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Jan 28, 2024 23:39
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Week 601 - going under the knife I’m going to have my first surgery ever in a few days, and my first time going under anesthesia since i was a teen (which doesnt count since teens are barely conscious anyway) and I am having all kinds of thoughts about death and stuff, so, now you get to as well! PROMPT: Your character is about to do something which might kill them. What are their thoughts on this? Wait a minute, you say, isn't literally every thunderdome story about someone doing something that might kill them? Yes BUT, most judges don't demand introspection on this, I DO DEMAND INTROSPECTION. Your story can be about whatever you want, but make sure you describe the existential crisis going on in your character’s skull with at least as much effort as you do whatever external stuff is going on. You can ask for a flash and I’ll give you some innocuous action which is the thing which might kill your character. (example that no one will get: pushing a button) You’ll have to figure out why it’s deadly. I wont be able to give flashes on wednesday or probably thursday, so other judges can provide them for those days if needed. 1500 words Usual rules, no erotica, no political screeds, no fanfiction, I generally don't give negative mentions but reserve the right to do so. signups close friday midnight pst, submissions close sunday midnight pst (or later if i fall asleep early and forget to close them until the morning) Judges: Me ? ? Entrants: fat jesus beep beep captain person saddest rhino obliterati sitting here thranguy derp fucked around with this message at 18:15 on Feb 8, 2024 |
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Feb 5, 2024 09:14
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Submissions are closed
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Feb 12, 2024 16:22
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 601 RESULTS the judges have conferred and agreed! saddest rhino gets an HM for 'there is no ocean' and the winner is captain person, with 'ten steps'! welcome to the blood throne, enjoy your stay crits to be posted later tonight
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Feb 13, 2024 04:44
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judgecrits for 601 The elevation by beep beep I appreciated the restraint in the world building in this one, this is all about the characters, the worries of Dar and her confusion and uncertainty about what will happen, and the helplessness of just going along the with the flow even though you feel you’re flowing toward something bad. Her parents don’t seem too worried at all, though, which i thought might be a clue. Over all I found the end to be a bit too predictable. Because the outcome was unknown to Dar, all her introspection was about ‘what will happen’ not about ‘will i die, what happens when i die’ which is fine, BUT the outcome of her dying seemed pretty obvious to me the reader. So, because it seemed so obvious, in the end I was expecting this leadup to be a bait and switch, and for something unexpected to happen, ie her not to be a sacrifice. I think this story might have been a good chance for you to give in to your desires for happy endings, and maybe the blood is actually from a bunch of animals slaughtered in order to cook her a big welcome feast or something. the universe in you by Fat jesus I believe this is about a machine that gains awareness, and decides to disobey his orders/programming, and has some thoughts about existence and consciousness and what it might mean to Be. I really liked those internal thoughts, they made the story, but as for what was actually happening in the story (who was doing what and why) i was mostly confused. I found the introspective parts to be very good, though, and i might steal some of these thoughts. there is no ocean by Saddest rhino Great prose here, i love the stream of consciousness and ‘you’ is always hard to pull off, but you did it. I love the setting of the cave and the ocean and the glowworms, it is grounded in reality and yet just weird enough to make the whole thing a surreal experience of questionable veracity. That ballance is really quite good. The last part of this, as ‘you’ go into the water, is just really expertly written, some great lines. Enjoyed this a lot. shark dive by Black griffon I really liked the structure of this story, the pairing of the childhood memories with the present day action worked very well. Also some great prose here, vivid descriptions. I only found it a bit hard to care about the action because it wasnt clear to me what the stakes were other than ‘don’t die’ which the character did not really seem worried about at all. it’s just a game to him, and winning (surviving) is just a thrill. This works great for the character but leaves all the action and explosions a little hollow. ten steps by Captain person This is great. I love the focus and the simplicity of the old fashioned duel, two guys about to shoot at each other, a simple scenario, but all the complexity and chaos going on inside this guy’s mind at each step leading up to the pivotal moment is expertly captured. This is basically exactly the kind of thing i wanted to read this week. I love the confidence and excitement slowly morphing into uncertainty and fear with each step, the realization that this could be the end, and it is coming right now, especially the final moment and wondering if this is the last time he’d see that color of blue. Very good. My only (very slight) complaint was that the voice felt a bit anachronistic at times, the idea of a duel with pistols in a garden is very 17th century, but the voice felt modern day to me. Very enjoyable read, contender for the win. mostly he just floats by Obliterati An aging and ailing uncle likes to build rocket cars so he can float in space for a while. A fun concept, but i felt the pivotal moment was over too quickly, i wanted to see more consideration of the risks, weighing the danger vs the fun, before the young guy decides to go for it, delay it and make me wonder if he’s going to tell mum, make me think for a moment he will, so that when he goes for it i can have that YES catharsis moment. Because that end was very cool, and the appeal of that car was palpable, but it seemed too easy for him to say go for it after all the talk and worry of the danger of it in the leadup. Fun characters, good read. archaeology by Thranguy: This is mostly a conversation between two characters about how one of them evolved, and is a lot of interesting backstory and world building, but i’m not entirely sure what the story is here, there is some kind of business deal in the end, an exchange of a ‘rock’ for some stories. I like the concept of paying for something with stories a lot. This is likely a matter of personal taste, but being thrown into these completely alien worlds with nothing familiar to latch onto, and only just enough time to get a vague sense of what is going on before the story is over, makes it very difficult for me to care about anything.
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Feb 13, 2024 06:44
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im way behind again on novel words but what the hell put me in with a song lyric
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Feb 13, 2024 06:59
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you have challenged the WRONG guy, buddy you are ON get ready to rue this day there will be much ruing rue RUE! (i accept, if that wasnt clear)
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Feb 13, 2024 19:31
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REGRET BRAWL the cold The cold wakes me and I see her reading via flashlight beam, one hand shining the light, the other holding my journal as she sits on her cot across from me. Steamy breath obscures her face but for her black eyes gleaming in the reflected beam. I don’t move, I lay there watching. The cold has always slowed my thoughts, and it takes time for awareness to permeate. She is reading my journal. There is more in those pages than polar bear sightings and sketches, much more. I scroll back to the moments before we extinguished the lamp, I sat here on this cot while she persisted in reviewing the day’s footage. I sat here cross-legged, bent over the journal that now perches in her slender hand. I was writing... Outside, the wind howls and snow makes soft brushing sounds like fingers secretly caressing the tent. I lay still. The fog of breath that obscures her face thickens and thins like a pulse, and at its thin moments I see that her cheeks are blushing (but the cold always causes such things) and her eyes dart left right, left right, left right. She has not turned a page, she reads the same page repeatedly, and it begins to sink in, all the possible things she could be reading. I cannot tell at what point the journal is open. There is no way to guess. A lightness like falling warms my gut. Her name is written many times in those pages, in many contexts. When spending weeks isolated with a person it’s impossible not to have thoughts about them, and I am one who writes my thoughts. Many such thoughts could easily be misunderstood. A lock of hair is tickling my nose, but I dare not move. She is reading, it’s bad enough, each moment that her eyes bore into that page a sickening warmth swells in my stomach, the need to urinate warms me as her black and silent eyes absorb everything, irrevocably seeing things which cannot be unseen. It’s bad enough already, but for her to know that I know--that would be unbearable, to live through the endless minutes with that knowledge hovering between us, unbearable. Wind presses on the tent and flurries of snow swish past in the dark, out where polar bears roam, six individual bears that we’ve so far documented, all with four-inch curved black claws that could slash through these walls like paper. I think about trying to blow away the lock of hair that is resting on my nose, but I won’t risk making a sound. Then she moves, her forefinger lifts, bends, slides between the sheets, presses softly, turns over the page. As the page turns I see for an instant, circled in the beam of light, a certain sketch I drew of her, and I remember suddenly and clearly what I wrote on the page opposite, the detailed and specific scenario I described that day perhaps a week ago, and my face burns so hot I fear she might feel the heat. And has she opened to that page at random, or has she been reading all night, reading right from the start, page after page of descriptions, scenes and thoughts not meant for anyone but me, and all just idle fantasies, not real desires, only placed on the page as a kind of exorcism. But how could I ever explain something like that? Her slender finger moves again, up, in, out, and another page turns over. I feel a sudden boiling urge to leap up and snatch the journal, to yank my mind free from her devouring eyes, but how could I? How could I explain, how would she react, how could we go on, how... The only possible way forward is to pretend it never happened. If she puts down the journal and goes to sleep and neither of us knows that the other knows, if we can both carry it separately and act like nothing’s changed, that’s the only way, the only way... The flashlight clicks off and everything is black. The wind seems louder in the dark, I hear the snow like a pattering of insects on the tent, I imagine the groaning and snuffling of a bear out there, somewhere, plodding through the drifts. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark and I see her outline. She is sitting, staring. My journal lays closed on the cot next to her. She is staring, at me? I cant make out her face in the dark, only her outline. Just go to sleep, just go to sleep, I will her to lay down, just lay down so this can be over, but instead she gets up and takes the few steps between us and stands at the edge of my bed. My heart pounds in my throat and my ears ring, my face burns as I imagine she must be looking down at me, looking right at me in the dark, and I squint my eyes, peering only through my lashes at her legs right next to me. She is returning the journal, I suddenly realize, and relief floods me for a moment, she must be about to reach down and slip it back under my pillow. But the journal is still there on her cot. I see its shape in the dark, its weight pressing down the blankets. Then weight presses down on my cot, and soft heat slips under my blankets and presses against me, an arm snakes over me and a hand is hot on my back, breath on my neck. I know if I open my eyes I will see her eyes and be devoured by them. I can’t lay still for much longer. She presses against me. I can’t keep still, I have to say something, I have to... I feel her lips on me
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Feb 15, 2024 21:17
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cabin 1111w Pine trees so tall they block most the sky, a small strip of blue fading to dark blue and purple, tall deep green trees on either side of me, driving up the winding mountain road to her cabin. Why I’m going to see her, I don’t know, I haven’t been invited, it’s been almost a decade, we haven’t spoken, I haven’t seen her face. Why I thought of her again this past week, this past month, why I decided to just get in the car and go, I don’t know. The winding road narrows constantly, and the trees seem to stretch up into the sky like they’re made of syrup, and the road is narrowing and narrowing until I worry the car wont fit. I don’t recognize this road any longer, I don’t recall going this far into the foothills to reach her place before, I don’t recall this density of trees. She always used to tell me, back when we talked every day and I knew her face better than my own, back when I would dream of the feel of treesap on my fingers and the smell of pine never left my skin, back when I kept a spider in a jar on my windowsill simply because it had been in her hair, back then she would always tell me ends aren’t really ends because nothing ever stops ending. The paved road ends, tires crunch on gravel, I slow down, some large bird of prey swoops across the strip of sky between the darkening trees. Night is falling. I thought for sure I would see the cabin by now, the friendly stacked log walls, the twist of smoke above the chimney, the rows of flowers lining the little vegetable garden. I feel sure I’ve not forgotten the way, even after all these years. On the passenger seat is a small terrarium holding a purple stag beetle that I raised from a larva, a gift for her. Its glistening amethyst carapace, the color of twilight, will enchant her I know. I can already see the purple sheen reflecting in her black pupil as she holds it, perched on a knuckle, up to her eye. It is almost night, and there, finally, is the path, splitting off from the road. I see the cabin outlined in the growing darkness, the roof seems to sag somehow, like it’s tired, or maybe just worn and stretched with age. The path is strewn with fallen branches and is too thin for the car, so I stop, kill the engine, grab the terrarium, and get out. When I used to walk this path every day it seemed wide open with birds and little things darting about in the brush. I always felt then like I was leaving the world behind. And she would open the door by the time I was halfway down the path, always, she could always tell I was coming, and she’d stand there in her bright, loose dresses that hung around her ankles, and heavy boots, dresses and boots always. I walk silently and all seems still, the path narrows and dead, broken branches knock against my shins and ankles. The trees seem to lean over the cabin from all sides, encroaching. The cabin is dark, and I wonder if she has gone to bed early. She used to sleep whenever she felt tired, sometimes going to sleep even while I was there for a visit. I see no motion or light through the little smudged window, and I knock on the wooden door. You’re leaving, aren’t you, she said, weeks before the last time I saw her. I said no, of course not, but somehow she knew before I did. She sensed some severing between us that had not yet reached my own awareness. I still don’t know why, but from then on my visits dwindled. I remember the last time I saw her, though that little window, dozing in her chair. Seeing her like that somehow made me stop, turn around, and leave. She never had a phone, she never used a computer or the internet. So that was that. I knock again, no answer, no motion in the window, no sound from within. I try the door and it swings open. Inside is just like I remember, a little dining table, an unmade bed, the shelves lined with potted plants, colorful stones, bits of wood and other such things, and there, facing the window, her chair. I call out, hello, and the walls absorb my voice. Nothing moves, and the air smells of stale wood. Somewhere nearby, out amid the trees, is a glittering stream where she taught me to fish with a pole she’d made from a piece of bamboo, and on the bank of that same stream, in a patch of short grass and dandelions, is where we first made love. I wonder if she is there, or any of the countless other such places scattered among the trees. I set the terrarium on her table. The little beetle is a sugilite spark in the dim cabin air. I look around. I touch the plants and rocks. I brush my fingers across the arm of her chair, squeeze her rumpled blankets in my hand. It’s all cold, and feels lifeless in the shadows between the walls. Have I gone back, I wonder, have I gone back in time as well as space, back to a dry and empty world left behind like a shed skin, left by all the life and light, which moved forward into the present day. There is a black feather on her bed, under the blanket, flattened, like she slept on it. I think about taking it, but in the end, I don’t. Back outside, I shut the door behind me. Put hands in my pockets and stand a moment, thinking. Wind hisses through the trees and they sway and creak in the dark. I tilt my head back, look up at the night. A scattering of pinprick stars and a lemon wedge moon. I try to think about why I came here. And I try to think about why I left. But it's been too long for any of that to matter, for anything to matter anymore. When I open the car door the interior light spills out like some pale antiseptic, sterilizing the night. I get in, shut the door, and my ears ring in the silence, and my skin tingles with the closeness of the doors and roof and windshield. Here I am, sealed in this little box of light and warmth. Here I am. I start the engine, and head back toward the city.
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Feb 18, 2024 21:02
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Oh dammit I gotta be in, gimme 1 card
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Mar 26, 2024 03:06
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| # ¿ May 15, 2024 00:11 |
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prompt: 6 of swords shipwreck 1300w The ocean is too big, I’ve always said, I’ve always believed what we call ‘the ocean’ is far too big and unnaturally big, and this bigness makes all manner of ocean related things impossible to deal with, impossible to look at or comprehend. Consider: the whole of earth is covered with water spare a few islands, and those islands are what we call ‘the continents’ and then a scattering of dust around the continents are what we call ‘islands’ and everything else is water two miles deep and dark and full of who knows what (we don’t know, and will never know, it’s too dark and deep.) And then people go and float around on this water, intentionally. Well, not me. Not me. Except, apparently, yes me. I am, it seems, required by this ridiculous relationship of mine to go on the water. Not just any water, but specifically ocean water. A lake would be acceptable to me, but a lake is not acceptable to her. A lake is right out. A lake is ‘a puddle’ and in her mind that is a negative, a lake is a ‘bunch of rain which might dry up at any moment’ a lake is an embarrassing little pool, and ‘doesn’t count’ and so here I am at the shore, here I am being licked by wet tongues, the infinitely licking tongues of the great black beast called ocean, and here we are. The boat is wedged in the sand and is rocked slightly by each wave and could hold maybe three people at most, a little wooden thing with oars, just a scrap, just a pine needle floating, and I’m meant to sit on that needle, and we’re meant to row out there and watch the sunset out of view of the shore and this is of maximum importance to her: the shore must not be visible or it ‘doesn’t count,’ all around us must be water, from horizon to horizon in every direction must only be sea and sky with no hint of land and safety, and out there in that terrifying infinity we two will sit and ‘enjoy’ the sunset. We push the miniscule rickety wooden boat out onto the waves, our shoes off and in the boat while we walk it out, then hop aboard and row against the waves, pushing out from shore, rocking and swaying, we sit facing each other, row row, me facing the receding shore, her facing the horizon, row row, splish splash, oars slapping and slushing in the salt, row row, she looks so excited, her cheeks are pink from the wind, her eyes are watering, strands of her black hair are escaping the tie and flittering around her head, she looks right past me and out to the big flat nothing, and her eyes are so wide and glowing and she looks like someone who will never come back. And behind her the beach is shrinking to a little brown line. And gone. Flat blue, grey blackgreen and little flecks of white foam and little sloshing slurps at the side of the boat, and deep blackness beneath, only some few inches below where I sit, separated only by this thin wood is an endless depth of cold water, unbreathable undrinkable water that would slither and slide its way into my nostrils ears eyes and throat in an instant given the slightest chance, and she is looking so pleased, turning round and round in the little raft, trying to swallow the world in her eyes like a snake unhinging its jaw she gulps the ‘view’ which is actually of nothing but sky and water, not a hint of life or existence, not even a plane in the sky to comfort me with a reminder of other people, it is only us, quietly sloshing and rocking, and beneath, of course, a million unseen things swimming. Then she takes my hand, and we turn in the boat so that we’re straddling the seats and thus sitting side by side and looking at the setting sun, and the light is sinking down into the deeps, sinking down and soon to be extinguished, and soon to leave us alone in the dark on this unending field of waves, and she squeezes my hand and looks at me and says I love you, and her eyes are gleaming with something, some kind of hope or anticipation, and I say Yes, of course, you as well, and the boat is swaying as if trying to dump me out of it, and the light is sinking, the sun, our own sun, like a great red coal sinking into the water and I believe I can even hear the hiss and see the steam on the horizon, the sky is darkening, the great fire is going out, soon it will all be over and we’ll be alone in darkness, which on the one hand makes everything even more terrible, but on the other at least means that we will have ‘seen the sunset’ and can finally turn around and go back. At some point during the sunset she lets go of my hand. Stars appear in the darkening sky like a thousand eyes opening in the forest. We rotate back into position in our seats and oar toward shore, but this time we are both facing forward, and I am looking at her back, the back of her head, her muscular shoulders flexing with each row, and cold wind whooshes constantly over us, the cold breath of the ocean. And with each push of the oars I feel as if a fog is receding behind me, as if the ground is rising up to meet me, and the city lights in the distance, where our warm and silent rooms are waiting for us, are brighter than the stars. But I soon begin to feel an uneasy sense of lightness, as if I’ve forgotten something, as if I left some important item floating back there on the dark sea. At the shore we hop out and pull the boat up onto the sand, and the wonderful feeling of solidity, of the whole solid earth under my feet fills me with clarity. I glance at her several times as we pull the boat up, take our shoes, walk up toward the road, but she seems to always be turned away from me, and even when not, I cannot see her face in the dark. Was it everything you hoped for? I ask, simply to break the silence, but she doesn’t answer, and we walk on, with only the shushing of our feet in the sand, the shushing of the waves, and the shushing of the wind above us, a night full of hissing, and I am filled with the strangest feeling of isolation, as if she is not she, and too as if I am not I, as if we are only shadows, weightless, disconnected shadows sliding noiselessly along the beach while our bodies were left behind on the waves and still sit there, watching the stars hand in hand. At home I put on the TV for something to break the silence but every show I click on seems to feature the ocean, waves, beaches, boats, and the instant I switch away from one, there is another, as if intentionally throwing themselves at me. On one, a narrator states with gravitas that there are three million shipwrecks down there in the deep, and I wonder aloud how they could come up with such a number, who calculated that, and why couldn’t it be, in fact, three million and one. She goes to bed early, which she never does. I stay up into the night, watching, but not really watching anything.
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Apr 1, 2024 01:07
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